


Parisian Magic

by Marsbarss



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe- 13th century, Blasphemy, First chapter is more world building, Holy Knights, Javert is a dick, M/M, Magic, Religious Conflict, Religious Fanaticism, Shipping will happen later, courf and jehan are tailors, jehan is magical, musichetta runs a tavern, will edit tags as I go on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-05-24 19:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14960331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marsbarss/pseuds/Marsbarss
Summary: Julien Enjolras is a nobleman and Blade of God.The Blades of God are a sect of the Knights Templar who enforce the law of God within Paris.Magic and all things inherently 'pagan' are illegal in France, and punishable by death for those who break these laws.Julien, secretly dabbling in magic himself, has never doubted much before, but when he witnesses a witch burning, he begins to.





	1. Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: A dramaticized, somewhat satirical, blasphemous tale of a Europe oppressed by a corrupt Christian organization in the 13th century. More warning for religious fanaticism, blasphemy, cults, gore, blood, probably torture, a whole lotta swearing, corrupt priests, holy wars, injustice, monarchies, and a whole lot of fuckery. This is going to be very dark.

In Paris, and indeed all of France, the practice of magic was illegal. In addition to this, those born with magical talents were often executed or locked up, never to be seen again. It was a law born of a want to rid France of the old ways. Of the ways of the pagan gods and goddesses who once reigned supreme. In the modern Paris, the Paris of 1248, there was no room for superstition nor vile paganism. Christianity was the only acceptable way. Of course, only the vein of Christianity supported by the king and pope. All others lives were forfeit. The old languages were outlawed. Shrines were destroyed whenever found. The practicing of pagan traditions was always punishable by death. In this way the kings of France kept the people in line, the strings of the puppet controlled by the church, which sought to eradicate all things ‘evil’ or ‘satanic’, with a rather blatant disregard for this wonderous thing called people having a different culture. Other cultures were blasphemous, knowledge was evil, and believing in ghosts or anything else that went bump in the night was preposterous and usually ended in lashings. 

In addition to the practice of magic being illegal, distributing magical tomes or other items with magical aura, owning artifacts of any sort, performing rituals and practicing a number of holidays was illegal as well. Anything and everything ‘pagan’ was outlawed. A century or two later in British controlled Christian Ireland, even wearing the colour saffron would be illegal because it was ‘pagan’ in origin. However let’s ignore Ireland for now, because this story takes place in France. A kingdom located where at once just a part of the Gaulish empire stood. The Gauls were a Celtic people, and their ways, history, language, and tradition were threatened with extinction.

A large stone building of marvelous architecture stood tall in Paris for the last one hundred years. Its purpose? To house an order of Holy Knights. These knights were a sect of the Knights Templar, though they declared an independent organization as the pope and king began to grow distasteful of the righteous order. 

This Holy order was known as The Blades of God.

The Blades of God were founded shortly after Christianity came to Europe, by the Christian invaders who wished to control the pagan masses.

The Blades of God had a simple purpose. Purge the world of all things evil, blasphemous, crude, vulgar, or otherwise sinful. Their movement was chaotic good in nature, and was indiscriminate(Mostly) with who they brought their blades down upon. In general their mission statement prioritized the elimination of witches and all magic users.

As an unspoken rule a number of people were instant targets. Women who knew how to read(They were probably lesbian witches, y’know), Racial minorities(All foreign cultures are sinful and satanic of course), Women who had children out of wedlock(Damn witches), Any woman who so much as looked at them wrong(Witches, again), All women in general(Witches, everywhere), Homosexuals and ‘deviants’ of all kinds, scholars, and peasants in general.

The other unspoken rule was that noblemen and those in the church never came under any scrutiny, ever. One of noble blood could never do any wrong. And no priest could ever sin, only a madman would think they could.

And thus The Blades of God only accepted noble born boys into their order.

Julien Enjolras was one such boy. His family was powerful, and had long stood among the most elite of France. Julien was one hundred and seventy in the line for the throne of France. His parents of course boasted about their blood constantly. About their ancient line and relation to the royalty of the country. If they could, they would hire assassins to dispose of all one hundred and sixty nine heirs in front of their boy, so that they could control France. The game of politics was oh so fun. The court was a lovely place to be if you wished to be poisoned or have a bard spread malicious rumors about you. 

Anyway, at the age of twelve, Julien Enjolras was admitted to the Blades of God. Julien was no fighter, he was scrawny and much preferred books to shields. A quill and ink to a sword. However his parents believed deeply in the church and had promised the Knight Commander the life of their boy after he had saved Julien’s father’s life ten years ago.

Conscripts to the Blades lived at their headquarters, and were forbidden any contact to the outside world for the first year of their training. In the first year they would fast and pray, constantly doing chores and living in a dark room with only a candle, a bible, and a sorrowful bed made of planks with a simple blanket and no pillow, and devote themselves wholly to god before their true training began.

Enjolras was a spirited boy despite his scrawny figure and gangly limbs. He protested constantly, and this only earned him lashings. Five lashings for cursing. Five for not finishing his food, or for asking for more. Ten for cursing god’s name. Fifteen for shirking his chores. Ten for not completing his prayers. Atonement through pain was a common thing. Every sin resulted in lashings.

The first year seemed like a lifetime to young Enjolras. With only the bible to read, he grew bored and restless easy. A few months in and he had dissected the entire document, writing pages worth of notes and interpretations. He studied and studied the contents, revisiting passage after passage. He had no reason not to believe. He prayed often. 

Enjolras found companionship in an old priest who lived with the knights and did their services. They talked for hours, and when they did, he answered the questions about the bible no one else had. The priest was amused by Enjolras’ endless curiosity and excitement to learn. 

After a year had passed and his initiation was over, the old priest gifted Enjolras a gold cross necklace and a book. The book was leather bound, the pages beautifully illustrated. Enjolras asked what it was.

“It’s something I acquired while in Ireland some years ago. They have talented scribes who create these books, detailing the history and tales of their faith and country. They contain a wealth of knowledge.” The priest answered.

“Thank you,” The young Enjolras marvelled, running his fingers over the binding, bright blue eyes gazing at a beautiful illustration of some Irish Saint. 

“Knowledge is a power, Enjolras, it can become transformed into sin, or studied to increase faith and security. You thirst for knowledge, I can tell, but tread carefully.”

Enjolras was careful, for a time.

When his combat training started it was quickly evident Enjolras had no talent for it. He became bruised and bloody after every session. He received lashes when he did not perform a move correctly, and was reprimanded when his stance was off or his hands shaky. 

Holding a blade was scary. Enjolras didn’t like fighting, he liked reading. He hated using violence. Violence was bad. His words were his weapons, his mother used to tell him. His voice was his greatest asset besides his mind and he could accomplish more than that than he could with a blade in his hands. She saw potential, where his father saw failure in him. He wasn’t good enough to his father or to the knights. A weak boy.

He missed his mother dearly but how could he miss his father when his scornful knight mentor acted just like him?

His mentor’s name was Ser Javert, a senior knight and harsh man. He was a man of few words and yet had a burning passion that while Enjolras feared it, he respected it. Javert was not always so terrible. On good days he patted Enjolras on the back and was even almost kind to him. He and Enjolras talked about religion often, but Javert had less room for Enjolras’ questions than the priest did. On a rare occasion Javert treated Enjolras with something like paternal affection. He grew less cold over time and resembled somewhat of an idol to the boy. 

Often more times than not, Enjolras would hide for his hour or so of freetime. He didn’t talk with the other boys or interact much with them. They all were cruel and mocking. No, Enjolras snuck away. He had a spot he always retreated to. It was through a small passageway that he found the archives, locked away and holding undoubtedly forbidden knowledge. Most books the order obtained from their work were burned, but these shelves held everything from religious texts to magical tomes whose enchantments prevented burning.

The archive was a large room, with high ceilings and large, tall shelves lining the walls. Empty sconces would have provided light. The main door was barred, dust and cobwebs covering everything. There must have been hundreds of books and scrolls there. 

Enjolras didn’t dare touch the magical tomes at first. He read through the religious texts first. His memory was near perfect, so he committed their knowledge fast.

On sixth visit to the archives he finally mustered the courage to open one of the magical tomes. Magic was bad and evil and forbidden but surely learning about it would only make him a better knight, right?

The book was large and heavy. Leather bound with thick pages. Something about it seemed alive. The pages were beautifully illustrated, much like the book the old priest gave him, but instead of illustrated with saints this book held gods and goddesses and spells. Symbols holy to an ancient religion, recorded by magic users who tried to fit generations of oral knowledge into one book.

The language was one he did not understand at first but he read anyway. The phrases and symbols were strange to him, foreign and new. Deep down however he knew he was uncovering some of France’s history. He read for what seemed like hours, studying runes and words. Without even realising it, the words began to make sense. He understood the language, as if ...by magic. It felt right. It felt natural. He was scared. Did he have magical talent? He’d be killed. They’d burn him at the stake. 

Enjolras hadn’t even noticed that the book was glowing, and so was he. He glowed. That was odd? He gasped and dropped the book, it landing with a plop and sending dust flying. He ceased glowing at that point but was left bewildered and terrified. He left the archives as quickly as he could, returning to his room and praying. He stayed on his knees for hours, hunched over by his bed with hands clasped together before dawn came around and his aching body could barely manage to push him up.

Enjolras didn’t go to the archives for months after that.

Eventually, Enjolras did retreat back to his hidden sanctuary. It was on his fourteenth birthday. He had two more years of training before he would be made a knight officially. 

The boy hungered for more knowledge, more than the knights or the priests could give him. He found the magic tome exactly where he’d dropped it months ago, and sat in front of it. Carefully, he lifted it and lightly dusted it off, turning the page and picking up where he left off. 

The title of the next page intrigued him. A spell that could make him stronger, faster, a better knight. He had realised this was a book of combat magic, and from what he read, there must’ve been other books in the series detailing alchemy, healing magic, and illusion magics. Moments passed by and eventually, Enjolras earned up the courage to begin reciting the spell on the page. He felt no different but perhaps he would see the effects later. He committed the phrase to memory and then stood to search for other magical tomes.

Enjolras spent the next two years studying magic and completing his training. He used magic to aid him in his knight training, quickly becoming a better swordsman and managing to not fall over when armour was placed on him. His muscles grew and he didn’t even need the spell after a while, as his body adapted to meet the point the spell had set. It was the happiest day of his life when Javert smiled and told him what a good job he did at practice.

Shortly after Enjolras turned sixteen, the ceremony to officially induct him into the order took place. 

He became Ser Julien Enjolras. Once the scrawny, troublesome boy who seemed hopeless, now he was a well trained man. Considered an adult and officially a knight, a Blade of God. He was sworn to the holy calling. Pride swelled within him.

Pride was a sin however, and it didn’t last. 

 

The first witch burning Enjolras witnessed left him reeling. It was a year after he had become a knight. He knew the woman who was burning. A kind woman from the bakery down the street that delivered fresh bread to the knights. It was too much.

He stood at the front of the gathered crowd with the other knights who had captured and declared the execution. He had to get away. Slipping away after moments of observing if anyone was even paying attention to him, the knight found his way into a nearby alley.  
When the stench of burning flesh hit Enjolras, he vomited, and his body was wracked with sobs as he heaved into a barrel, the convulsions shaking his entire body. His gloved hand clenched the wood of the barrel so hard he felt it splinter. God, he felt so sick. So wrong, like he was the evil one. Hilda was so sweet. She wasn’t a witch, he could sense that with his own magic, his own sin. For the first time ever, he doubted. He stayed there, sobbing and heaving until the burning was over and the crowd began to be dispersed after a speech from Javert.

The remains of the pyre were a smoldering mess of blackened wood surrounding the charred corpse of the ady Hilda. Her husband had wept throughout the demonstration until the knights dragged him away after he tried to go into the flames to save her. They arrested him and had him flogged. 

Enjolras returned to his post beside his Commander, Javert, reluctantly and with a pale face and red eyes. He fixed his eyes on the ground, glancing over the symbol of the red cross and black blade over the tunic of his uniform. 

“The price of justice. A sin such as witchcraft can only be corrected by burning the witch. Giving her a taste of what is to come in Hell, as punishment for her crimes against God. If she repented, though I doubt it, God will decide if she continues to burn.”

Enjolras didn’t reply, simply nodded solemnly and watched as the pyre was deconstructed and the charred body hauled off by an undertaker’s cart to be put to rest in an unmarked grave.

“We have an important responsibility that was handed to us by God, Julien, remember that. We must protect the righteous, good people of France from the sinful and the powers of Satan. All those who fall from god’s grace deserve the flame. The good people will thank us for our intervention. We save their souls.”

Enjolras felt something within him then, as he looked around at the scared faces of the common folk. As Javert’s words reached his ears. Something stirred.

“No.”

“No?”

“No, that cannot be the only way. Murdering people, on what evidence? Why is magic even illegal? Because a book says so? Men are corrupt, and I find it hard to believe that the men who wrote ‘God’s word’ were not corrupt in their intentions as well!” Enjolras suddenly burst, blue eyes aflame and words accusatory. “We have robbed a man of his wife, a child of their mother. I saw the Knight plant the spellbook in her possessions, I heard the judge spin wicked rumors. The people are not thankful, they are scared. Not of God, of us. They fear us because we are killers.” 

In that moment, Javert raised his hand and slapped Enjolras across the face with his gloved hand. It hurt worse than any blow he’d ever suffered.

“Your doubt is an insult to not just our order but to God Himself. It is not your place to question and speak blasphemy, lest you want to wind up on a pyre yourself?”

Enjolras could feel himself shaking, with anger, with fear, with the pure adrenaline of standing up for what he’d believed all along. He never stood up before, but he never fully agreed with the knights rhetoric. He didn’t want to hurt people. He wanted to protect people. This wasn’t protecting. 

“Burning on a pyre would be a more welcome fate than harming the good citizens of France! You think me an insolent child. Too prideful to bow to god, too disobedient to follow orders. However I am no longer a child and I am not stupid nor blind to the injustice I’ve witnessed here today. God will not judge Hilda’s soul, He will judge yours.” With that, Enjolras walked off, headed into the streets of Paris with little care for where he ended up or where he was going.


	2. Merchants and Old Friends

Enjolras wasn’t sure what he was doing, where he was going, but he just needed room to breathe. He felt like his lungs were constricting. He’d probably return to the headquarters later, to face his punishment and a lecture, but for now he just kept walking, his legs straining from his punishing pace, pushing through crowds as he entered a market district. 

This was a section of the city Enjolras had scare explored, and he stopped recognizing streets a while ago when he finally stopped, and looked around. He noticed foremost that people seemed wary of him, seeing his shining armour and the sword at his hip, staring with fearful awe, and turning their gazes when he looked at them. That was disconcerting. He never really considered before, that people might not trust the Blades. They were an instrument of the church’s vengeance against sinners, the common folk feared upsetting the church. They were mostly devout believers sure, but rather than revering the church and the Blades, they feared them, because they had no power. There was no justice for a woman killed for witchcraft, no help for the children left behind, no care for the husband hung for blasphemy. The people did not question it, the church would guide and the Blades would protect from evil. Yet they still feared, as a mortal often fears a darkness, or an animal fears a hunter. Still, the unknown caused a greater fear, as did tales of horrid pagans who raided villages, raped women, and sacrificed children to Satan.

It was beginning to get dark, meaning it was probably around six. It was autumn, the air chilly. Thankfully his many layers of padding beneath the armour kept out the worst of the chill. Enjolras looked for any distraction to keep his mind away from the consequences of his words and actions.

He began walking again, this time with a slower pace, his eyes searching over every market stall. He noted a few stalls filled with jewelry, things brought from the Silk Road or from farther North, antiquities from elsewhere in Europe dotted some stalls. There was one, filled with beautiful fabrics of different materials, dyed exotic colours with odd patterns. The merchant who stood behind the stall had long red hair, trailing down their back, fair features with hazel eyes and freckles, and an intricate flowing dress made of various fabrics from silk brocade in a dazzling blue to a plaidweave in yellow, and a deep green headscarf hung loosely over their hair. They had earrings made of feathers dyed purple and red, and necklaces of vivid corals and shells, strung together on a piece of twine. Silver bangles and beaded bracelets accented slim wrists, and gaudy makeup adorned their face.

This merchant perplexed Enjolras, who noted masculine facial features, body structure, and a deep voice. He wasn’t sure what to make of this person, who smiled so kindly and enthusiastically at those who chose to take a look at his fabrics. He was a sight to behold that was sure, a splatter of intense colour in a city of greys and black. Enjolras found himself wandering closer, if only to sate his curiosity about his odd man. 

His accent was French, that much he could tell, and from the amount of fabrics from different lands, Enjolras guessed well travelled. He likely had contacts with the Silk Road as well as traders in Northern Europe to collect such a diverse arsenal of materials. He noticed some thick furs among his assortment that couldn’t have come from anywhere else but the savage lands the vikings called home.

“Oh hello! See anything you like, Monsieur Knight?” The merchant beamed, hazel eyes looking to Enjolras expectantly. “Ooh you have such pretty eyes! This scarlet velvet would go so well with them! Maybe in a new tunic- Oh yes.”

Enjolras was stricken, unsure what to say or how to react. “Oh, you think my eyes are pretty? Thank you.”

The merchant nodded. “Definitely! Like the bluest seas or the sky on a spring day. I’m Jean, friends call me Jehan, can I set you up with a velvet tunic! You would look positively dashing, don’t you agree, Courfeyrac?” 

Suddenly, a man with curly black hair and bright eyes popped up from behind the stall to stand beside Jehan, smiling. He looked over Enjolras with the most inquisitive, bright look, and nodded. “Red is definitely his colour, but velvet? Non. He needs the finest red silks, imported from bazars in the Ottoman capital.” He smiled, stepping out from behind the stall. There was something odd about both of these individuals. Courfeyrac held up a bolt of red silk to Enjolras, smiling at Jehan. “See? Definitely silk. Probably a noble’s son, silk would be perfect.”

The duo were odd, something not quite right about either, Enjolras couldn’t explain it but he felt something about them. 

“So, what do you think? Silk or velvet? I can offer a discount for a pretty face.” Jehan grinned. “I think there’s something special about you.” 

Enjolras blinked, regarding the two. “Oh- I don’t know a thing about clothes. The...velvet?” He removed his glove and ran his hand over the material. He liked the feel. 

Jehan looked thrilled, and let out a gleeful little sound, grabbing the bolt of velvet before producing a piece of twine and a knife for measuring. He looked at the armour. “Oh that won’t do, too bulky to get accurate measurements. Why don’t you come back to our shop and I can take your measurements properly? I’ll have a courier boy drop the tunic off at your address after I finish!” 

Enjolras nodded, intrigued and oddly, finding no will to refuse. At once, Jehan and Courfeyrac packed up their stall, and each of them grabbed one of Enjolras’ hand, dragging him off down the street. 

The shop was a space above a local tavern, with a few rooms. He guessed it served as a home and shop to the two. Enjolras didn’t pay much mind to the tavern as they entered through the back and were quickly ascending stairs into the space above. 

The shop walls were covered by fabrics and a couple garments either made or traded. There were a few in progress works sitting on mannequins. Most of the shop was orderly chaos, bolts of fabric stacked haphazardly or a mess of sowing equipment tucked into a corner. There was a spinning wheel in one area, and a few stools elsewhere. 

“Strip off your armour and stand on the stool, please!” Jehan smiled, letting go of Enjolras’ hand. “It shouldn’t take long before we’re through, Monsieur- Oh I don’t think we ever gave you a chance to tell us your name!”

“It’s Julien, Julien Enjolras. Enjolras is fine, or Enj.”

“A fine name! It’s lovely to meet you. Say, Courfeyrac, didn’t ‘Ferre have a friend named Julien?”

“I think so, I can ask when he stops by later.” Courfeyrac looked over Enjolras again, as if trying to connect dots. He gasped after a moment. “You look exactly how ‘Ferre described his friend! Well, he said the last time he saw his friend was when they were children but he looks like him, doesn’t he, Jehan?”

Jehan nodded. “He does!”

“Wait a minute...Ferre? As in Combeferre?”

“Yes, that’s him!” Courfeyrac confirmed with an ever increasing excitement. “So you know him! I didn’t think we’d ever meet the famed Julien!” Courfeyrac’s eyes were blown wide.

“How do you two know Ferre, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Courf met him at a salon the Comte Dupont was hosting, what, five years ago?”

Courfeyrac nodded. “He’s been a good friend since. Saved my ass from the horrors of one of Dupont’s stories. The man was droning on forever about horses when Ferre swooped in, like my knight in shining armour!” He sighed dreamily, clasping his hands together and batting his eyelashes in mockery of a lovesick maiden.

“Careful, you sound like Marius!” Jehan laughed.

Enjolras found himself chuckling at the two, amused by the strangeness. But, any friend of Combeferre’s was a friend of his.

“You have to stay tonight, Enjy! Ferre will love to see you. All of our friends are meeting at the tavern tonight!”

“I said you could call me Enj, not Enjy, and..all right. It’d be nice to see him again.” This wasn’t quite the distraction he was searching for, but it was...nice.

Enjolras set the last piece of his armour down on top of his cloak and pulled off the chainmail next, before doing away with his padded coat, leaving himself just in a simple white tunic, tights, and boots. 

“Merde how do you wear all of that and not fall over!” Courfeyrac gaped. “You’re so skinny for all of that gear!”

“A lot of training and sore muscles and it’s possible.” Enjolras shrugged. He hadn’t thought about the weight of his gear that much since he was a younger. He got used to it. It was a lot, and his gear all together when paired with a proper arming sword and kite shield equaled probably about as much as he weighed himself. 

“You sir, are amazing. I can hardly lift a bucket of water!” Jehan laughed. He was rather weak physically, with thin arms Enjolras couldn’t imagine lifting a sword. “Now, up on the stool so I can get a better look!”

The measuring process didn’t take too long, sure to Jehan’s word. He messed around with the velvet, and asked Courfeyrac what he thought would accent it best, and managed to get a few ideas before he allowed Enjolras to relax. Enjolras put his padded coat and cloak back on, but left the armour where it was for now.

“The other’s should be here soon! In the meantime, you can meet Musichetta.” Jehan smiled, and once again took Enjolras’ hand, leading him downstairs. Jehan was very touchy, liking to be in contact with others, Enjolras noticed. He was always draped over Courfeyrac’s armor in contact somehow, with anyone. Jehan was easily likable, so Enjorlas didn’t mind when Jehan took his hand. He was still rather confused about the whole...dress thing. It was often looked down upon, for a man to dress in anything considered even remotely feminine, and some priests treated it like an abomination and tried to persecute men who did so, but Enjorlas couldn’t remember a passage that said crossdressing was a sin. He didn’t think it something worth of punishment, definitely not of stoning or whatever that one zealot priest who spoke to the Knights every once in a while said. Mostly, he thought the dress was so oddly fitting with his personality and very Jehan in style. 

In the tavern, there was a woman wiping down tables and getting ready for the more busy hours that would come later that night. She wore a simple dress, in shades of green with a cream apron and her hair pulled back with a bandana. She was beautiful, all tan skin, with flowing brown hair and a pretty face, complete with plump lips and green eyes, a certain exotic look to her figure. 

“Musichetta! This is Enjolras! He’s the friend Ferre told us all about!” Jehan beamed, kissing the woman on the cheek with a vivid smile and friendly hug. 

Musichetta’s smile faltered, when she looked at Enjolras. Enjolras knew why, when her green eyes fixed on the insignia of the Blades on his coat. She smiled again, brighter this time. “Well! It’s nice to meet you, I’m Musichetta. Any friend of Combeferre’s is welcome here.” She returned to her work, almost too quickly. 

Enjolras didn’t have time to contemplate the interaction when two figures walked into the tavern, one taller, with messy black hair and a grinning face, and the other shorter, with red hair, a beard, and dressed in the clothes of a serf. The shorter of the two was covered in dirt and seemed tired, his likely calloused and bruised hands gloved, bandages peeking out of the hem of the cloth gloves. The taller one was dressed a little better, less dirty, and was all muscle, clear from his sleeveless tunic, which Enjolras could tell was padded. He had a war axe at his hip, a shield strapped to his back, and wore arm and shin guards. A mercenary maybe?

“Feuilly! Bahorel!” Courfeyrac cried, enveloping the both in a hug. “I’m glad you two could make it this time!” His friends were busy people, with Feuilly working multiple jobs to get by and Bahorel always away from Paris on jobs. “Come meet Enjolras!”

Enjolras stayed back, taking a seat at one of the tables. 

There was something he liked immediately about Feuilly, when the bearded man looked over and smiled at him. 

The two new arrivals went over to the table after the taller one-Bahorel-gave Musichetta a big hug. “I’m Bahorel, nice to meet you.” He grinned at Enjolras, taking the chair across from him. Feuilly sat beside Bahorel, less excitable but still smiling. 

“I’m Feuilly!” The ginger introduced himself.

This group already was more smile-y and cheerful than Enjolras’ usual company, which included old tomes and less than exciting Blades whom he lived with.

The two hadn’t the reaction Musichetta had, to seeing his Blades insignia. Their smiles didn’t falter. The suspicious part of Enjolras, that drew from Blades teachings, thought Musichetta’s reaction was suspicious. Could she be guilty of...something? Magic, maybe? It wasn’t like how the commoners looked at him, it was more like she considered him a threat. Enjolras didn’t want to know if she was a magic user or not, he didn’t want her to be a target.

“Enjolras,”

The five of them talked while Musichetta finished cleaning the last table. It wasn’t long before the door swung open again, and five more people filed in. Led by a happy looking man, short with messy brown hair and dark hazel eyes, talking animatedly to a taller man with a bald head and chin scruff. Said man had a number of bandages covering an assortment of injuries. The shorter man walked with a limp and carried a large book. He dressed in a long cloak of dark blue with a white tunic, loose pants, and boots. 

His friend, the bald one, wore a plain brown tunic with leggings and simple leather shoes, along with a big smile that honestly made Enjolras like him immediately.

The next two were a couple, that was obvious by the way they looked at each other. A girl with pretty blue eyes and blonde ringlets in a sky blue dress arm in arm with a tall, freckled man with auburn hair and wide blue eyes. He dressed in nice clothes, it was obvious he was a noble with his high collared tunic in shades of blue velvet, inlaid with silver, and wonderfully crafted leather boots with simple white tights. The two could hardly take their eyes off of each other to greet their friends. Enjolras recalled some random quote about lust that Javert spat every time they came across such a young couple.

The last man to enter was one Enjolras recognized, though it had been years. He looked different from when they were children, but not so different. The same shaggy light brown hair and bright, intelligent eyes. He wore a nice but simpler ensemble of a grey tunic with black tights and boots. Enjolras rose from his chair, and met the intelligent eyes of his friend with a fond smile. 

The two embraced, Combeferre grinning from ear to ear. “Enjolras! It’s been too long.” He cheered, reluctant to let go of his friend. They hadn’t seen or communicated at all in the last eight or so years, since Enjorlas’ father sent him to the Blades.

“Too long. It’s good to see you ‘Ferre.” Enjolras smiled, more truthfully than he had in some time. 

“How’ve you been?” Combeferre questioned, looking Enjolras up and down. He noticed the insignia and the sword at Enjolras’ hip. He didn’t react to it at all, though in his mind wondered if it would be an issue. Surely not? Enjolras was kind and open minded- He didn’t want to think that his best friend may want to kill most of his new friends simply for existing. 

“As well as I can be. A lot has happened today.” Enjolras replied to Combeferre’s raising brow. 

“You can tell me about it, if you want.”

Enjorlas nodded with his smile faltering to something more vulnerable and the two of them joined their friends around a table, Enjolras being introduced to the rest of the group.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love feedback on this, so please leave a comment and tell me what you think!
> 
> Suggest characters to appear in the next chapter and what ships should happen


End file.
